Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  * * *

  For most of that day Justin had been in a state of chronic indecision, his thoughts wavering this way and that. Outside Brede House, he had once again found himself at the mercy of feelings so powerful that he had no idea how to command them. From the moment of their first meeting, this lovely, lively girl had intrigued him. He had known her immediately for a free spirit. He recognised now that she had been far more than that. She had been his own spirit, his own soul, though he had tried to shrug off such feelings as fanciful nonsense. Instead he had told himself that she was simply a young woman living in the neighbourhood, a girl who would become a stranger once he’d returned to the fighting and to Spain. And that was all to the good. Despite her manifold charms, Elizabeth Ingram was a woman like any other, and that in itself was a strong reason to pass her by with no more than a casual greeting. Yet he had found himself hoping to meet her whenever business took him to Rye, found himself enjoying their conversation and now, latterly, enjoying a great deal more. It was as though the emotions he had so carefully stored away had broken through an invisible barrier and were now impossible to recapture.

  Only a few days ago on this very terrace, they had teetered on the edge of mutual seduction. He had known her to be as willing as he and after that disturbing encounter, he had told himself that it must never happen again. He must avoid her and concentrate entirely on Chelwood. In under a month, he would return to his regiment and he could not afford to be wasting his energy. In that way he had dismissed or tried to dismiss the devastating passion she aroused in him.

  It had taken only a few minutes today, he reflected wryly, for such indifference to ring utterly false. Once more he had been unable to resist her and the realisation had come to him that he did not want to. He wanted to give himself to her body and soul. Extraordinary feelings had washed over him, ones he could never have imagined, and the years of bitterness had simply fallen away. Lizzie was not like any of the women he had known. She was fresh and young and innocent. She was passionate and loving and he wanted her. For the first time he questioned whether he had been misguided in devoting himself to a life of privation and hardship; whether the camaraderie of the regiment could ever be sufficient to make up for the love he had hitherto dismissed.

  It was as though the premise on which he had built his adult life was under threat and he did not know how to respond. All that was clear to him was that he needed to see her again, needed her here at Chelwood. Their parting had been abrupt, both of them overcome by the sheer strength of their feelings. Spiralling emotion had overturned long-held beliefs for both of them, but they would find a way through, he was certain, a way perhaps to happiness. The decision was made. He rang the bell and summoned his gardener to the library. Latimer was to pick the choicest blooms from the estate’s one succession house and he would sit at his desk and pen the invitation. But that proved more difficult than he could have imagined and after four spoiled attempts, he was forced to settle for the briefest note he had ever written. He hoped that Lizzie would understand its message.

  * * *

  When Alfred returned from Brede House without a response, he felt a thud of disappointment and imagined that for some reason she had been prevented from answering that evening and would send a note on the morrow. But she did not. Nor did she on the next day or the next. He felt betrayed and he felt foolish. Her kisses had meant nothing, it seemed, bestowed without thought, for the pleasure of the moment. She had responded to his lovemaking, but it was his body, not his heart, that she wanted. She was no different, after all, from any other woman. For once he had chosen to ignore the lesson life had taught him and he was well served. He had allowed himself to contemplate love, dared to imagine a future lived together. What an idiot he had been! To think that he might have followed in his father’s footsteps! That poor man’s fate should serve as the greatest of warnings. Justin’s mouth set in a forbidding line. If nothing else, he owed it to Lucien Delacourt to save himself, and he would.

  Chapter Nine

  Lizzie had not thought it possible to stay so unhappy. But as each morning dawned her misery, if anything, increased. She longed to see Justin, but she knew that she must not. She had not replied to his invitation and now four days later he would have given up on her, she was sure. No doubt he felt aggrieved, even angry, and was certain never to renew his welcome to Chelwood. Keeping her distance had to be the right course, but why then did every day seem longer than the one before? For a while Mrs Croft required constant attention, but once her employer began to recover, Lizzie found it impossible to fill every minute of the day. She tried and failed to find solace in her drawing, she read every newspaper in the house to Mrs Croft and then pestered her for extra errands she might run, until the poor lady pleaded to be allowed to sit quietly without interruption. She attempted to help Hester in her chores, but the maid told her firmly that Lizzie was hired as a companion, not a maidservant, and though she appreciated the offer, the girl was simply getting in her way. Cook was moved to suggest politely that the kitchen was best left to her, after Lizzie had burnt two loaves of bread and undercooked a particularly succulent joint of beef being prepared for Mrs Croft’s supper.

  She felt wretched and restless and could attend to nothing for more than a few minutes, dashing from one chore to another without pause. Even walking gave her no cheer. Whenever she ventured out, she was careful to stay this side of the marsh and well away from Chelwood, but with every step she remembered Justin: his smile, his beautiful voice, his strong hands wrapping hers in their warm clasp. Nights were even worse; she would toss and turn endlessly until finally she drifted into sleep, only to wake within the hour. After four dreadful days, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, pale and hollow eyed, and knew that she must rescue herself. She would drink some gooseberry wine, she decided, a potent brew kept under lock and key in the kitchen, and then read and read until she could no longer see the words on the page. Then she would be certain to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  That, at least, had been the plan. But either the wine was not as strong as she’d hoped or her reading was too absorbing, for it was many hours before her eyes closed and the book slid slowly to the floor. Two o’clock was striking in the hall below when a small sound roused her from the light sleep she had fallen into. She turned fitfully in the bed. Her covers were crumpled into a heap and the book she had been reading was somewhere wrapped in her pillow. She lit the candle to put herself to rights and then she heard the noise. That was what had woken her. It was the slightest murmur of voices, the smallest sound of crunching on stone.

  She extinguished the candle and went to the window. A fingernail of moon floated amid the inky blackness, its muted light revealing only the hazy contours of the garden. For a moment she watched the shifting silhouettes of trees and bushes and through them, straight as any arrow, the path leading to the cove. Had the noise she’d heard come from the garden? She remembered the fate of Mrs Croft’s unfortunate granddaughter and quailed, then scolded herself for cowardly thoughts—her heart was not weak. What kind of soldier would she make if she jumped and ran at every small sound? She would investigate. Pulling a thick cloak and boots from the wardrobe, she sped silently down the stairs and out of the back door. She was on the path now, the cloak wrapped tightly around her nightdress, and noiselessly passing the stone bulk of the folly. With each step she stole closer to the beach and with each step the murmurs grew louder. It was the stillest night at Brede House that she had so far known. That was why the noise had carried, she thought, and she must take the greatest care not to alert whoever was in the cove.

  The gate creaked under her hand and she held her breath, but the sounds below continued. She crept forwards to the head of the wooden stairway and peered into the dark. The river flowed softly, hardly a ripple maiming its surface and the slither of moon played along the beach. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she began to make out
figures. Men? Were they men? If so, they were the strangest creatures. Walking beehives was the only way she could describe them. There were some eight or ten of them dressed in long black top boots, dark tunics and torn leather jerkins, but it was what topped this ensemble that sent a shudder up her spine: a hive of coiled rope with three small windows cut out of the front, two for eyes and one for a mouth. It was a disguise that would ensure the men were safe from recognition, but was designed, too, to frighten away anyone unlucky enough to meet them.

  She swallowed hard and tried to look beyond to a small boat standing offshore. The faint strand of moonlight allowed her to make out its shape, though the vessel itself showed no lights. The voices she’d heard had fallen silent—an occasional muttered oath, the sound of water washing around the men’s legs was all that reached her. Several of them were wading between ship and shore with what appeared to be barrels strapped to their front and back. Once they reached the beach, they dropped their cargo and returned to the boat for more. A second group hefted the barrels one by one on their shoulders and crunched their way across the shingle to the foot of a path which climbed steeply upwards. She stood on tiptoe, but could see no more than its very beginning, for a tall hedge ran down the west side of the garden. Then through the clear air, the rattle of a harness—there were horses on the cliff above! The illicit cargo was about to make its final journey. Her heart contracted painfully. This gang of smugglers—for they could be no other—was responsible for Gil Armitage’s disappearance, she was certain, but where were they taking their haul and might it lead eventually to Gilbert himself?

  If only Justin were here...but he wasn’t and she must do what she could. She must follow them, see where they were taking their cargo and, if possible, discover where Gil was being kept. If she succeeded, she would make sure that Justin learned their direction. The last barrel was being carried up the pathway; she heard the sound of a whip and the slow creaking of carts. Cautiously she made her way down the staircase to the beach. The boat had disappeared and with clouds now obscuring the moon, it was hardly visible as it made its way downstream to the open sea. There was nobody left in the cove and she raced across the beach to the path which would take her to the clifftop. She dared not let them get too far ahead.

  But once on the cliff, she came to a dead halt. The men appeared to have vanished and in their place a terrifying luminescence hovered in the air. The tales she’d heard from Hester returned with paralysing effect. The maid had tried to convince her that the marsh was haunted and that travellers who lost their way and disappeared had been taken by the marsh witches. Lizzie had laughed scornfully, but at this very moment she did not feel at all like laughing. Instead she stood stock still, quite unable to move. Had the witches decided to come to town this night? Then her wits returned and she realised that the shimmering cloud was moving forwards in a deliberate fashion, accompanied by the rattle of harness and the sharp, quick step of hooves. Silvery shapes showed faintly against the horizon—the ghosts, it seemed, were pack ponies! The animals must have been painted with a strange, phosphorescent mixture in order to terrify all that saw them. Newly brave, she squared her shoulders and began to follow.

  Always careful to keep a distance, she walked swiftly in the wake of the convoy. For a moment the moon floated free again and she could see in its frail light that she was following two—no, three carts, each one piled high with barrel upon barrel. By their side walked the black clothed figures, one or two holding the dimmest of lamps. For some half a mile they trudged along the coastal path, then abruptly swung to the right and began to move along a smaller track—one she had not known was there—winding their way around the base of the town until they reached a wooden bridge which forded the river at its narrowest point. Over the bridge, a bleak flatness loomed out of the dark. They were headed for the marshes!

  It was desolate country, the bushes, when they grew at all, bent and crippled by the scouring of Channel storms. It had been windless in the cove, but now the first chilly gust was cold enough to penetrate her woollen cloak. She hardly felt it, though, for her heart was beating so fast that the blood ran warm in her veins. Here and there a thick mist, feet high, hung like the web of a thousand spiders over the dykes which zigzagged across the marsh. The moon had once more disappeared behind banking clouds and she could see little beyond the surrounding darkness. From time to time she was startled by the huge dyke sluices which reared unexpectedly out of the night, rising it seemed out of nowhere. She must keep to the path at all costs for where there were sluices there was water as black as pitch.

  The carts were picking up speed now and she had almost to run to keep up. Every so often she lost sight of the dim shapes ahead, but soon she would hear the trundling of a vehicle on the stony path and see a pinprick of light from one of the small lanterns the men carried. Then the convoy disappeared completely. It happened in an instant; she looked to her right and then to her left, but could see nothing. She strained to catch the clink of harness, but could hear nothing. It was as though the men and their horses had been swallowed by the night’s blackness. The clouds above had darkened further and she could no longer even see her feet. Cautiously she took a step forwards and found the path. With relief she began to walk again, hoping she might soon discover the convoy. They could well have made a sharp turn from the track, she thought, in order to head to their final destination. The idea sent her blood thrumming. Perhaps she was near to finding Gilbert for they must be miles into the marsh by now and this lonely, isolated place would hide a captive admirably. A surge of energy and she began to quicken her pace.

  But in one instant she lost the path. Somehow she had veered into mud that squelched and sucked around her feet. Hastily she tried to regain firmer ground, but once more mistook her footing and found herself cold and wet, her nightdress a forlorn, floating shroud and her cloak a sodden blanket dragging her downwards. She had fallen into a dyke and was plunged knee deep in water! She took a deep breath. She could get out of this, she must get out of it. Overhead the flap of a prowling bat breaking through the mists caused her to jump and she felt herself sink further into the quagmire. Fear screamed through her, but she told herself that she must keep calm, keep still until the moon swam free of cloud again and she could see her way back to the bank. If only the moon would shine! Nothing but blackness surrounded her, no sound save the tickling bubbles that rose from the mud bed to burst amid the bullrushes. Despite her best efforts at keeping still, she knew that she was sinking further into the mud. She tried again to reach out for the bank, but only succeeded in plunging deeper. Panic triumphed and she began threshing wildly in the water, crying out in terror, though there was no one to hear.

  A hand grabbed her arm. She gasped. Could this be one of Hester’s marsh witches? How very stupid, but on this night anything was possible. The hand was warm and firm and was pulling her to her feet. Hardly able to breathe, she regained the bank. Then she saw it—the horrifying beehive. Her rescuer was a smuggler! He must have been walking at the rear of the convoy and heard her struggles. But the gang was thoroughly ruthless, so why had this man saved her? Did smugglers have consciences? More like he had scented an opportunity to make money through kidnap or blackmail. She would be another victim like Gil Armitage! At the thought she almost threw herself back into the water. The gust had become a wind now, rising from the shore and scattering the mist towards the sea; through the lifting haze she saw him take off the dreadful headdress of coiled rope and when the fragment of moon sailed finally into clear skies, the two figures stood revealed, naked to each other’s gaze.

  * * *

  ‘Lizzie, what on earth!’ It was a familiar voice. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  She struggled into speech. ‘But you, you’re a smuggler!’

  ‘A very bad one, as you see.’ The joke made no impression, for her worst suspicions had come true. Justin Delacourt had joined this terrifying gang of men!
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  He seemed unperturbed at being discovered. ‘Here—walk with me a little further along the track. It is safer where the path keeps well above the marsh. We must talk quietly for they are not far away.’

  ‘They? Then you really are a member of Chapman’s gang?’ She was desperate to have judged him wrongly.

  ‘A very temporary member. I promised you I would speak to Rosanna again, but when I considered the situation, I felt it unlikely she would be willing to tell me more. This seemed a better way—to gain the gang’s confidence and hopefully discover what has happened to Gil.’

  ‘But becoming a smuggler...’ She was struggling to take in the enormity of what he had done.

  ‘I could think of no other way of getting their trust. Even so, they do not trust me. I am useful for the moment, no more.’

  ‘How did it come about?’ she asked in a dazed voice.

  ‘I sauntered down to the Mermaid and let it be known through the rascally landlord that I was bored with life and a trifle resentful. I made out that I had been forced from the army and had a grudge against authority. I was finding it difficult to settle into civilian life and was desperate for some excitement. Sure enough when I returned the following night, one of them sounded me out. The gang was looking for a likely man, someone with my height and strength. I told my story again to one of the gang leaders and must have sounded believable enough for they took me on immediately.’

  ‘So that was who you were meeting on the cliff!’

  ‘That was who I was meeting—you can see why I could not tell you.’